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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753515">The Basement</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstriferousSprite/pseuds/AstriferousSprite'>AstriferousSprite</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Halcyon (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Babysitting, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Graffiti, Kid Fic, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Siblings, Teen Angst, The Halcyon Friends &amp; Family February 2021, also light angst if you really squint, friends who might as well be siblings, proto-feminism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:02:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstriferousSprite/pseuds/AstriferousSprite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at two generations of troublemakers, set in the lower levels of the Halcyon Hotel.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Emma Garland &amp; Freddie Hamilton, Emma Garland &amp; Toby Hamilton, Toby Hamilton &amp; Freddie Hamilton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. December 19, 1930</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written for week 2 of The Halcon Friends &amp; Family February, with the prompt <i>siblings/de-facto siblings.</i> We're all sorely missing some trio shenanigans, and I think it's time to remedy that...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="TextRun SCXW129274238 BCX0"> <span class="NormalTextRun SCXW129274238 BCX0">The basement is just as it’s always been.</span></span>
</p><p>The distant lights still have a bad habit of flickering as they sway gently in the cool breeze; the smell of earth and dust still floats through the air; the mysterious dripping sound from God knows where still echoes across the brick walls. There might be big plans for the cellar, but so far, no one’s done anything yet; for now, it’s still only used for storage.</p><p>Well, storage and mischief, if you’re the right sort.</p><p>Emma giggles as she races down the stairs with the twins, the parcel of hand pies held close to her chest. Chef Parry may have been happy to hand her a pastry or two, but he hadn’t noticed His Lordship’s boys sneak in right behind him until just the last minute, and by then they were already off.</p><p>“I can’t believe he saw you!” she says, hopping over the last step and leaning back against the wall with another fit of giggles. “You two nearly ruined the mission!”</p><p>“Hey, I didn’t ruin anything this time!” calls Toby from the top of the stairwell. “If I recall, it was Freddie who sneezed and knocked the tray over.”</p><p>“Because you didn’t move out the way!” Freddie huffs, skipping the last two steps and sitting back next to Emma. “Your hair was tickling my nose, what was I supposed to do?”</p><p>“Not sneeze.” Toby finally makes it down (he’s never been one for speed), reaching out to grab a pie from the stash. “What kind this time?”</p><p>“Blackberry,” says Emma, grabbing one of her own and feeling the buttery crust melting in her hand. “Chef always makes blackberry pies on Friday.” She takes a bite; sure enough, the sweet taste of the berry comes through. “Oh, it’s extra sweet today!”</p><p>“A lady doesn’t talk with her mouth full,” says Freddie, though the aloof demeanor is quickly shattered by the bright smile he’s failing to suppress.</p><p>Rolling her eyes, Emma just punches him in the shoulder. “I’m not a lady.” </p><p>“<em>Yet,</em>” says Toby through a mouthful of pastry. “But then you’ll grow up and go off to school and they’ll teach you <em>all </em>about manners and what’s right and wrong and how to hold your shoulders back and all that—”</p><p>“They don’t teach you manners in school, just how to read.” She brings her legs up to her chest, carefully balancing the parcel on her knees. “And I like it, but I wish we did more than just read books—like languages!” Freddie timidly reaches for a pie, carefully holding his hand underneath it as he takes small bites. “You know Mr. Feldman speaks French?”</p><p>“Who, the Welshman?” asks Freddie.</p><p>“Yes, the <em>concierge</em>,” she says, putting extra emphasis on the word. “I’ve always wanted to learn it; it sounds like such a nice language, but we never have the time.” Pie crumbs fall to the floor as she continues to eat. “Dad says I might be able to get into grammar school on a scholarship and learn it there, but that won’t be until next year, and I don’t even know if I’ll do well enough to even qualify.”</p><p>“Of course you will, Em,” he says, his eyes wide and earnest as he looks at her. “You’re the smartest girl I know. They’d be foolish to turn you down.”</p><p>Emma peeks at him from over her pie. “You really think so?”</p><p>“I know so,” he says with a smile, and she can’t help but return it in full.</p><p>“Well, I’m sure it won’t be as exciting as wherever you’ll be going next year.”</p><p>Freddie sighs. “No, just Eton. Nothing special.”</p><p>“Except the uniforms,” says Toby, reaching over to grab another pastry. “God, Em, they’re so ridiculous, you should see them. We’ll be in <em>tails </em>next year.”</p><p>“You’ve got to be joking.”</p><p>“And top hats.”</p><p>“Be serious!”</p><p>“I am serious!” He waves his hands around, small flakes of pastry falling as he shakes the pie. “Freddie, tell her I’m being serious!”</p><p>“Unfortunately, Toby’s being serious.” Ignoring his brother’s indignant squawk of “<em>Unfortunately?</em>”, he continues. “But I don’t think we have to wear tails until we’re a bit older. And, well, tall enough,” he adds, fiddling with a loose thread at his cuff. “Just normal jackets.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry, just <em>normal jackets </em>to go with the rest of the morning dress.” He huffs, taking a bite of his pie and slumping back against the brick wall.</p><p>“It’s too grown-up, isn’t it?” says Emma. He nods, mouth still full of pastry. “I know I wouldn’t want to dress like I was going to church every day.” By now, she’s come to learn how to read between the lines; Toby’s always had a habit of speaking around his point. “I’d feel silly.”</p><p>“Exactly,” he says. “It’s too much.”</p><p>“Too much right now,” says Freddie, staring at the swinging threadbare bulb above them and watching as the light it casts shifts from tile to tile. “I’m not ready to be grown yet.”</p><p>“I can’t wait to grow up,” says Toby, staring at the floor. “I just hope I don’t have to wear full morning dress when I get there.”</p><p>Emma picks another pie from her lap and just stares at it. “I don’t even know what I want to do when I’m older,” she admits. “There’s not a lot for me to do, even if I wanted something better…” She sighs. “God, I’ll probably just work here for two years and then quit when I get married—”</p><p>“<em> No! </em>” the twins say in scandalized unison.</p><p>“What else can I do?”</p><p>“Whatever you want,” says Freddie. “You’re smart and funny and clever and…” His voice falters. “…and I won’t let you just get married and do nothing else.”</p><p>The flaky dough crumbles between her fingers. “It's different for me,” she says. “I’m just a girl.”</p><p>“You’re not just a girl, Emma.” The look in Freddie’s eyes is so soft yet so sorrowful, almost as if he really doesn’t understand that he and Toby lead a much different life than she ever will—that the chances offered to them will be so much more numerous than she can ever hope for.</p><p>Honestly, it hurts even more, because Freddie’s just so… <em>earnest. </em>He’s as much an optimist as his brother is a cynic (at least, that’s how she thinks the word is used?), always believing the world can be so much better than it really is, and while she sometimes appreciates it, sometimes it’s just so naïve. And they’re older than her, they should both know better!</p><p>But instead of voicing all her worries, she just finishes the pie in her hand, savoring the sweet blackberry flavor, and wipes her hands on her skirt. “Well, it doesn’t really matter,” she says. “We don’t have to worry about being grown-up for a long time.”</p><p>The light above them continues to sway ever so slightly, casting a light this way and that—and catches on a small bit of white on the wall across from them.</p><p>Emma squints, trying to get a better look at the speck, which turns out to be—</p><p>—chalk.</p><p>Honest to God, white chalk, just lying there on the floor. Or is it laying there on the floor?</p><p>A sudden idea comes to mind, as impulsive as is it stupid. “You boys see that?” she says, setting the little parcel of pies on the floor and standing up. “Over there, on the right.”</p><p>“It’s just chalk,” says Toby.</p><p>“Right.” She begins to make her way towards the wall. “Just chalk.” When she picks it up, it feels dry and powdery in her hands. “And we’re just three children, left alone in a basement with boring blank walls…”</p><p>She spins on her heel. “Freddie, catch!” She hurls it at Freddie, who fails to catch it in time; it hits him square in the forehead, leaving a powdery white mark.</p><p>“Em!” he yelps, trying his best to look cross as both she and Toby burst into a fit of giggles. “What was that for?”</p><p>“She warned you, she literally warned you!” says Toby with another laugh. “Well, go on. Don’t disappoint the lady.”</p><p>“I’m not a lady!” She wipes down a section of the dusty old wall, only coughing a little as it blows in her face. “Well, go on, Freddie. Write something.”</p><p>“Write what?”</p><p>“Just leave a mark,” says Toby, the rare impulsive side to him finally showing again after years of it being hidden. “Prove that you were here.”</p><p>Freddie just blankly stares at it, before hastily scrawling down his initials, a simple <em>FH </em>looping around the brick.</p><p>“Your turn,” he says, slamming the chalk into his brother’s hands, who stares at it for a few seconds before writing an equally bulky <em>TH.</em></p><p>“Hey, ladies first.”</p><p>Toby scoffs. “I thought you said you weren’t a lady?” He flicks the chalk over to her, and she fumbles with it for a bit, nearly dropping it, before finding a blank space between the letters and signing her own initials.</p><p>“There,” she says, stepping back to admire their handiwork. It’s all so immature, but she supposes it’s fitting; they<em> are </em>still kids, after all. “We left our mark.”</p><p>“Do you think it’ll last?” asks Toby, cocking his head as he looks at the wall.</p><p>“Hopefully not long enough for us to be arrested.”</p><p>His eyes fly open. “Arrested?” he croaks.</p><p>“Yes,” she says, trying not to giggle. “I mean, it <em>is </em>vandalism. And look!” She sweeps her arm. “We even cleverly left our initials behind for them to check!”</p><p>Toby’s lip begins to quiver. “<em>Emma!</em>” he yelps, before running off; from a distance, Emma can hear him sniffling.</p><p>“Em.”</p><p>She turns to look at Freddie’s disapproving face. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t think he’d really believe me.”</p><p>He just shakes his head, though there’s a faint smile on his face. “Still have a lot to learn before grammar school, then.”</p><p>She chuckles, looking back down the hall. “Come on,” she says. “Before he loses his way again…”</p><p>Hand in hand, the pair make their way through the bowels of the basement to find Toby curled up against a dark wall vehemently denying that he was crying despite the tears in his eyes, but after plenty of apologies and an extra pie, the chaos is soon forgotten, and they’re right back to trading secrets in the dark underground of their hotel.</p><p>One day, she thinks as Freddie goes off on another tangent about propellors, when she’s stuck at home with kids of her own, she’ll look back at these moments fondly. But for now, there’s so much more mischief to be committed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ITV give us more scenes of these three being friends challenge<br/>Anyways, hope you enjoyed this week's installment, and I'll see you next week with some really minor characters finally getting their own limelight...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. December 2, 1950</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written for week 3 of The Halcon Friends &amp; Family February, with the prompt <i>social friends/acquaintances.</i><br/>And finally, we see some of our favorite kids all grown up! Obviously I'm taking some huge liberties with their personalities when I'm not just projecting all over the place, but I hope it still makes sense to what little we've seen of them... Anyways, onwards!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The staff entrance is just as it’s always been.</p><p>The bright lights still cast a hazy glow over everything they touch; the sweet smell of bread and spices still wafts through the air; the sizzle of the pans and clatter of the knives still bounces around the tiled walls. Despite the meager appearance, there’s always a sense of warmth and camaraderie that comes from the kitchen, regardless of who happens to be in it at any given time, whether it’s the old chefs…</p><p>…or an old friend.</p><p>Dora hums as she creeps in through the doorway, carefully balancing James on her shoulders. She hadn’t initially wanted to be stuck on babysitting duty, but Emma already has her hands full with the anniversary celebrations, and their parents won't be off work until five that evening, so could you please watch him for a few hours, Dora? And Dora, being the good stepsister that she is, agreed, so here she is, hoisting around her nephew on her shoulders. He’s getting a bit big for her to comfortable carry him, but he insisted, and she’s always one to indulge.</p><p>Besides, if all goes well, she won’t have to bear the load for long.</p><p>As she rounds the corner, the sounds of hushed German come through, and she smiles. <em>Tzippi’s</em><em> on the clock. </em></p><p>“Shh,” she whispers, slowing down her footsteps. “Let’s surprise Tzippi.”</p><p>“Ok,” whispers James, still a bit too loudly.</p><p>Dora giggles, creeping up behind the pastry table where Mr. Klein and Tzippi are cutting out circles of pastry and gently pressing them into little pie tins. They’re chattering away, still completely oblivious to the surprise at hand—</p><p>“Oh, Tzippi!”</p><p>Instantly, Tzippi’s head whips up from the tart she’s currently molding. As soon as she catches sight of Dora and James frantically waving at her, though, her face instantly breaks out into a smile.</p><p>“Dora! James!” she says. “Good to see you again!” She turns to her father. “Erm, Papa—”</p><p>“Go on,” he says, with a rare smile as he pats her on the back. “I can finish these up.”</p><p>With a kiss to her father’s cheek, she skips off, following Dora back to the lockers.</p><p>“It’s been really busy,” she says, unbuttoning her white jacket and throwing it into her locker, revealing the smart blouse she’s wearing underneath. “Chef Robbie’s scrambling all around trying to finish everything for the party tonight, of course, but there’s still so much left to be done, and we’ve only just started brainstorming ideas for Christmas, and it’s been a mess—”</p><p>“So, you’ll be here Christmas eve, then?” says Dora, bending down and letting James back down onto the floor, though he instantly clings onto her leg as a replacement. “Can’t say I envy you.”</p><p>James’ eyes go wide. “You’ll be working on Christmas?”</p><p>“Yes, I will. Dinner never waits for anybody, Jamie.”</p><p>“But won’t you be sad?” he asks, so earnestly.</p><p>“Oh, James.” Dora bends down, lowering her voice. “Remember, Tzippi doesn’t celebrate Christmas.”</p><p>“Ohhhh! Oh.” He looks down at his feet. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”</p><p>“It’s ok.” She looks back up to where her friend is patting her short hair back into place. “She gets all the fun holidays, anyway. You know, their Christmas lasts for<em> eight days!</em>”</p><p>“Hanukkah isn’t Christmas,” says Tzippi, slamming her locker shut. “You just light some candles and sing some songs and eat some potatoes. We don’t even get gifts, just chocolate coins.”</p><p>“Well, I like candles,” says James. “And chocolate.”</p><p>“Then maybe I should invite you over sometime,” she says, sticking out her hand and letting him take it as they walk through the hallway. “Oh, speaking of which, Dora… can I ask you a question?”</p><p>“About what?”</p><p>“Well, I just need the perspective of an English Christian.” She sighs, sticking her free hand in the pocket of her baggy houndstooth trousers. “Dora… what does eggnog taste like?”</p><p>She blinks. “Pardon?”</p><p>“Well, you see, Papa’s put me in charge of crafting the dessert for the Christmas banquet, and I thought it would be cute to have a little dessert digestif, you know, make a little eggnog-flavored crème pâtissier and pipe it on top of a génoise sponge all inside a chocolate cup or something, but I haven’t even the faintest of what it tastes like…”</p><p>Dora bites her thumb. “Well, can’t say I’ve had it a lot,” she says, “but I think it’s just eggs, cream, vanilla, and… cinnamon and nutmeg, was it? Sometimes brandy?”</p><p>“Oh, bless you.” Tzippi lets go of James’ hand to pull out a notebook and hastily jot down some notes. “Perfect, and crème patissier already has those first two, so I can just add the spices and liquor and… oh, it’s all coming together!”</p><p>James cranes his neck up. “Wait, can I see?” he says, gesturing at the notebook with a little fist. “Did you draw that?”</p><p>“Erm…” James pulls her hand down to reveal a series of messy notes surrounding beautiful sketch of what looks like a teacup filled to the brim.</p><p>“Wow, you draw really good!”</p><p>“...why, thank you?”</p><p>“She does, doesn’t she?” says Dora, clapping her friend on the back. “Don’t be humble, Tzippi. You’re super talented.”</p><p>“It’s just a little sketch,” she says, tapping her pencil on the page. “Though it does look a bit empty…”</p><p>“You know what?” She pauses next to one of the laundry hampers, resting against it. “You should add some whipped cream.”</p><p>Tzippi’s eyes light up, and she furiously begins to sketch away. “Yes.”</p><p>“And a bit of grated nutmeg on top—ooh, and one of those chocolate straws, that would look adorable—”</p><p>“Can’t overdo it with the chocolate, though,” she says, dotting her pencil over the mountain of whipped cream to create little flecks of presumably nutmeg. “I was thinking of topping each one with a little chocolate decal, but Papa said I’d drive myself mad with all that tempering and piping.”</p><p>“What do you mean, overdo?” asks James, walking over and tugging at the leg of her trousers.</p><p>“It means I can’t have too much.” She bends down, letting him climb onto her back, and effortlessly stands up. For a moment, Dora’s almost jealous at how easy she makes carrying a small child look—but then she has to remind herself that Tzippi’s been working in the hotel’s kitchen in some form or another since she was twelve and Dora’s mostly wasted her life away with books, so she can’t really argue. “I know chocolate’s good, but you don’t want too much of it.”</p><p>“Wrong,” he says, cheerfully swinging his legs back and forth. “Uncle Toby says there’s no such thing as too much of a good thing.”</p><p>“Well, Uncle Toby can have his own opinions,” says Dora, “but he also thinks maths is actually fun, so…”</p><p>Tzippi frowns. “Maths is fun.”</p><p>“You nerd.”</p><p>“It’s really not that complicated!” she says. “It’s just its own language that you have to learn.”</p><p>Dora giggles. “Of course you think it’s like a language,” she says. “Gosh, Jamie, you know how smart Tzippi is? She knows, like, six languages!”</p><p>Tzippi rolls her eyes. “Not <em>six,</em>” she says. “Only three. German, French, and English, that’s all.”</p><p>“What about Hebrew?”</p><p>“I don’t speak Hebrew, I just know how to pray in it.”</p><p>“Mummy speaks French,” says James, wrapping his arms around Tzippi.</p><p>“That she does.” Dora’s heels click on the tile as they’re enveloped in the warm glow of the foyer. “Helped me a bunch with it, too, back when I was trying to study it at grammar school.”</p><p>“And Uncle Adil,” he continues. “He lived in France, you know. He worked there for a long time.”</p><p>To say that Sir Adil “worked” in France might be a bit of an understatement, but James is young enough to not fully understand the weight of his mentor's achievements back in the war. Hell, he’s lucky to even have the whole fiasco behind him.</p><p>“Did you learn French at school, too?”</p><p>“No,” says Tzippi, still holding onto him with hardly an ounce of fatigue. “But I lived in France for a few years, and I was young enough to just learn it by ear.”</p><p>“What’s it like?”</p><p>“Well, ‘fraid I can’t really tell you. I was your age, so I don’t really remember, and then we had to…” She pauses, clearly trying to find the right way to phrase her thoughts in a child-appropriate manner. “…we had to move here so we could be with Papa,” she ends up saying. “But I guess I’ll find out in a bit, anyway…”</p><p>Dora leans forward. “Find out what?”</p><p>She looks around, clearly trying to hold back a grin. “Well, it’s not certain, but I did apply to Le Cordon Bleu, and—”</p><p>Dora squeals, leaning forward to embrace her friend in a tight hug. “Tzippi, congrats!”</p><p>“I haven’t even heard back yet!” Nevertheless, she still laughs, hugging her back as much as she can without dropping James.</p><p>“Oh, they’ll be stupid to say no,” she says, taking a step back. “You’re talented and brilliant and one of the best <em>pâtissiers</em> I’ve ever seen.” James giggles at how she growls around the French. “God, you’ll have such a good time in Paris.”</p><p>A rare soft smile appears on her face. “Thanks, Dora,” she says. “I really hope I get in.”</p><p>“I’m sure you will,” she says. “But I’ll miss you. You’ll have to write me when you’re not busy, tell me<em> everything </em>about Paris.”</p><p>“Of course,” she says. “I just want to make some nice memories there, you know? Forget all about…”</p><p>Dora nods. “Right,” she says, knowing that neither of them needs to explain the heaviness sitting in their chests.</p><p>Tragically, the five-year-old they’re babysitting hasn’t quite caught the memo. “Forget what?”</p><p>Dora stills, looking back and forth between him and Tzippi, not quite well-equipped to have the genocide talk with her nephew in the middle of a hotel foyer. “Well—er, you know—”</p><p>Thankfully, Tzippi’s a bit more well-equipped after running after a little brother for eight years herself. “Well, you see,” she says, letting James down off her shoulders, “during the war, people in Europe weren’t very nice to Jews. They wanted us all gone. So, I just want to go back now that it’s safe and just…”</p><p>“Have a good time,” Dora finishes for her, “right?”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>Sometimes Dora wonders what it’s like, to have been born after the war like James, to have never grown up in its shadow, fearing its repercussions. Even she and Tzippi, young as they were even five years ago, always lived on edge for the bombings, their family members, who would and wouldn’t come home. She knows Tzippi already lost an entire family back in Vienna, grandparents and aunts and uncles and little cousins who will never grow up. Even Dora herself, safe on the home front and tucked away in the countryside, wasn’t free from the effects; her brother and father’s adjoining tombstones speak to that.</p><p>She doesn’t know if she should be envious or proud that James will never have to live through another world war. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it won’t even be the last war, and in twenty years there’ll be another ruckus in Eastern Europe and the cycle will begin anew. It seems anything’s possible nowadays.</p><p>“What about you, Dora?” asks Tzippi, pulling her out of her thoughts. “What are your plans after school?”</p><p>“God, don’t even start,” she says, already feeling the knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. “I don’t have any idea.”</p><p>“Well, you’ve got to have<em> some </em>idea of what you want to do, no?”</p><p>“But I <em>don’t</em>.” She huffs, crossing her arms as she sinks into a nearby armchair. “I mean, I’ll probably go to uni because Mum wants me to, but I’ll probably study something worthless like English and be a secretary for two years before getting married and quitting it all to be a housewife or something.”</p><p>“<em>Dora!</em>”</p><p>“I mean, what else can I do?”</p><p>“Anything,” says Tzippi, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You could teach, or be a novelist, or get a job writing television comedies. English isn’t <em>worthless.</em>” Her eyes are wide and earnest as she looks at her friend. “The world’s changing, Dora; you don’t have to settle for being a housewife.”</p><p>“Like Grandma Peggy! She does things!”</p><p>“Grandma Peggy’s just lucky. Any other man could have told her to stay home.”</p><p>Tzippi shrugs. “Then don’t get married,” she says, as if it were that simple.</p><p>“I can’t—Tzippi, I can’t just <em>not get married!</em>”</p><p>“Why not?” She sits down on the armrest, letting her feet swing back and forth. “It’s not for everyone. I mean, Mr. Hamilton isn’t married!”</p><p>“Mr. Hamilton’s married to his precious statistics, that’s what.”</p><p>James tugs at her skirt. “But Uncle Toby doesn’t want to get married.”</p><p>“See?” Tzippi grins. “Not for everyone.”</p><p>Dora stares down at her heels, the scuffs at the toes catching under the soft glow of the chandelier. “But what if I want to?”</p><p>“Then find a nice man who doesn’t mind that you want to write for a living and marry him.”</p><p>“You make it sound so easy.”</p><p>“Maybe it is,” she says softly. “Maybe it can be.”</p><p>There’s a moment’s pause as Dora reflects on her words. Ever since the war ended, it feels like people have been trying to move the world back to how it was, and she was uncertain of how she’d fit into this odd new life. But maybe Tzippi’s right. Maybe their lives can be different.</p><p>“I’m bored,” says James.</p><p>Dora smirks. “Oh, you think you’re bored now?” she says. “Try being stuck in a basement all night.”</p><p>“A <em>basement?</em>”</p><p>“That’s right,” says Tzippi, “though I don’t know why Dora’s talking about it so confidently, she was in Chertsey during the Blitz.”</p><p>“Not all of it, I was there at the beginning!” She huffs, crossing her arms. “And I seem to recall during that time you were in Liverpool, Miss Klein.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I was in London for the last bit!”</p><p>“What’s the blintz?”</p><p>Dora chuckles. “The <em>Blitz, </em>Jamie. A blintz is a type of pancake.” She pauses, thinking of the last time Tzippi had invited her to her place, batter flying everywhere in their eagerness to prepare brunch. “God, I could go for a blintz.”</p><p>“Blitz means lightning,” says Tzippi, flawlessly (of course) pronouncing the German. “Because that’s how fast the German planes would come in at night, during the war, when you least expected it…”</p><p>“Picture this…” Dora scoops up James and drops him in her lap, leaning in as if for one of his bedtime stories. “It’s late at night, and you’re just trying to have supper, or go to bed, or dance all night if you’re grown-up enough, but all of a sudden, just like every other night, the sirens cut through the air, and you hear the most dreadful noise—”</p><p>Looking right at Tzippi, she begins humming along the noise of a siren she hasn’t heard in over five years and trying not to giggle as her friend copies her, just a beat out of sync.</p><p>“Every night, Jamie!” she continues as he giggles. “Not a moment’s peace!”</p><p>“And as soon as you hear the sirens, you know you have to <em>run—</em>” Suddenly, Tzippi turns on her heel and breaks off into a sprint. “—all the way to the shelter!”</p><p>“<em>Hey!</em>” She winces as James jumps off her lap and runs after her. “Wait for me, Tzippi!”</p><p>Despite her youthful energy, Dora is tragically neither an energetic five-year-old nor a cook wearing sensible trousers; she’s just some girl who reads books all the time and had the misfortune of wearing heels instead of brogues. Thus, it takes her a while to catch up to the two of them as they race down the stairs to the old shelter. The brick walls and harsh lights are just as she remembers them, even if they’ve been cluttered up with boxes rather than people.</p><p>Tzippi just bounces on her heels, looking rather smug as she holds James’ hand. “I win.”</p><p>“No fair,” says Dora with a huff, resting her hand against a section of wall, “you… had a head start.”</p><p>Her fingers shift, and all of a sudden, they feel quite dusty. When she pulls her hand away, she realizes that it’s been covering a set of white letters on the wall, the chalk slightly smudged where her fingers were. She squints at the letters, deciphering the childish scrawl: <em>EG, FH, TH…</em></p><p>Her eyes widen.</p><p>“…so you’d be stuck here all night,” continues Tzippi, “waiting for the all-clear—”</p><p>“Hey, Jamie.”</p><p>James turns his head from Tzippi, who goes silent at the interruption.</p><p>“Look here,” she says with a smile, tracing the faint, chalky letters. “Looks like your parents still knew how to have fun.” She bends down and lets him scramble onto her back, hoisting him back up to get a better look. “See? That’s their initials right there!”</p><p>He jabs a finger at Emma’s initials. “Egg.”</p><p>“That’s Emma Garland,” she says, pointing to each letter. “Your mum was here a long time ago…”</p><p>A rattling sound to her right catches her attention. When she turns her head, she sees Tzippi fiddling with a piece of white chalk and grabbing it from the floor, casually tossing it in her hand.</p><p>“Reckon there’s still room for a few more names?” she asks.</p><p>Dora grins as Tzippi shuffles to a blank section of wall, her other arm neatly folded behind her, and writes a neat <em>TK</em> on the red brick.</p><p>“Here, catch,” she says, and makes as if to throw the hunk of chalk. Dora instinctively flinches, holding onto James even tighter, and she just hoots. “Kidding! Here, take it…”</p><p>Fumbling with her hand, Dora grabs the chalk and writes her own <em>DT</em> right next to it, before reaching up and letting James grab it with his small little hand.</p><p>“Up there,” she says, standing as tall as she can to let him write as high as possible. “Put your initials right there… that’s it… J and H!” He triumphantly cheers, letting the chalk drop straight to the floor once he’s finished making his mark.</p><p>Someday, she thinks, wherever she is in life, she’ll look back at this last day of youth fondly, of scrambling after her rambunctious nephew alongside her friend as they chatter about everything and nothing at all. But for now, there’s so much more fun to be had.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Look, sometimes you see a minor unnamed character and you just have to project all over them, you feel me?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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